


A Tale of Two Kings

by witchkings



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: BotFA, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22616974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchkings/pseuds/witchkings
Summary: „I would not deign to touch a creature so far beneath me even if I thought he was pretty,” Thranduil murmured and moved closer to Bard.„What?“„That‘s what you suppose I think when I look at you. You suppose I‘m arrogant beyond rational measure and that I only talk to you because practicality warrants it. Is that not right?“ And Thranduil had given him no reason to think otherwise. Until now.-Ye olde Barduil BOTFA drabble to get a quick fix for that single-dad-king feeling you just can't seem to shake.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Comments: 9
Kudos: 109





	A Tale of Two Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Amazingly, I have never written one of these. Enjoy! :)

The first emissaries of winter had slipped through the cracks of the Elvenking‘s stronghold barely noticed. For one thing, Thranduil awoke one early morning, not long after the ordeal with the dwarfs, one of Aulë‘s missteps certainly, shivering with cold. The fire had burned down over night and even though the embers still glowed faintly, he could feel none of its heat.

For another, the faint bite of smoke hung in the air, a bitter odor that Thranduil had tasted before. More than an omen of death, more even than the promise of grief. Dragon‘s fire never boded well in his experience and was usually followed by a long, dreary darkness.

Be it winter by season or winter by force, Thranduil despised both and so he seriously considered not getting out of bed. He could simply sleep through the months to come and no harm done. The weariness had settled deeply into his bones over the years, weariness and grief, a paralyzing combination. A slow death, the consequence of too many wars, too many losses. Why should he go now and risk it all over again? For risk it he must, what with Esgaroth aflame and the Dwarf Princeling maddened. Once he got up. He would stay in bed. He had no inclination to save what had to perish sooner or later in any case.

And he would have, if it hadn‘t been for one, nagging thought. One face that haunted his dreams. One name that had been teetering dangerously on the edge of Thranduil’s lips ever since the dwarfs had made for their wicked mountain. Bard. It was unelven and, to Thranduil, positively brutish. There was no elegance to it and neither did the man have any. Or so it had appeared to an old king at first glance. Seconds and thirds told a different story, even to one who usually had not the patience to look beyond an unfavorable first impression.

Thranduil had watched in silence as Bard had grown from an awkwardly long-limbed youth to a young parent, whose muscles were filling out enough to feed a family of five, to a hardened rebel. Fatherhood had suited the man. The first streaks of gray to suggest early wisdom, a body that became unbreakable even in the face of constant strain. When the master had not yet been established, Bard had come to the edge of the forest in his barge with his children who liked to cling to his backside as he worked or chase the fireflies by the riverbank. Though he always heaved, rolled, organized cargo, there had been a lightness in Bard’s dark eyes and Thranduil, though feeling elated at this sight, wrote it off as a feeble glimpse of a mortal life at its peak. Bound to fade. And fade it did, but not into the dullness of human age, no. A sorrow so deep Thranduil thought himself mirrored. A cold rage to weather every tide and turn, no matter the repression by the master, no matter that he had three growing children to feed when he could barely afford to keep himself well nourished.

Thranduil had been tempted. So very tempted that it kept him up at night, at the edge of the forest by day. If he only reached out, not an arm’s length away, reached out and taken what he desired, he could have erased all the little creases on Bard’s weatherworn face. Take all his worries and let him act out the tragedy of his losses in comfort. There may even have been love. Thranduil did not. For even though his attentions had followed Bard half his life, in Thranduil’s perception of matters, barely any time had passed. He had labeled his feelings a passing fancy that would wither away once Bard succumbed to the failures of a mortal body. Had told himself they were the product of long, dragging years spent in self-imposed isolation. Yet they had persevered.

Which meant that, at the thought of the doom looming just behind the borders of his realm, Thranduil felt cold sweat break out on his forehead. A fear, ghastly and overwhelming, gripped his heart and would not let go. If I let him perish, Thranduil thought and his fingers itched for a blade, who am I to have ever claimed a liking to him? But he couldn’t very well ride out and face the dragon either. That would be madness and for what? A chance at heartbreak. A chance at that which he missed dearly. Affection.

Then came dawn with a frantic pounding on the door and Thranduil sat up, rolled his shoulders back, mobilized his neck which was stiff from hours of staring at the ceiling, lost in rumination.

„Mylord.“ Came a voice, out of breath and erratic. „Mylord are you awake.“

„Yes,“ Thranduil replied and rose.

Galion burst into the room, sweat on his brow. Yesterday’s revel thick in his bleary eyes. Thranduil had let things slack, and why not. He shrugged into the robe Galion had hastily picked up from the armchair in the corner.

“The dragon has fallen, mylord.”

Thranduil froze. This couldn’t be right. Dragon’s did not simply plummet out of the sky when asked to. Theirs was perseverance, skin too thick to pierce, fire everlasting.

“How?”

“Word is that he was pierced by a black arrow.”

Bard, Thranduil thought and a rush of awe, pride, fear filled his chest. There was no way he would have survived it. 

“And the people?”

“Many have evacuated the city, but just as many must have fallen to the dragon’s wrath. They make for the ruins of Dale under the banner of that bargeman who is responsible for trade via the river.”

“Girion’s heir,” Thranduil murmured and lost himself in an idea, a tale of two kings. Crowns of silver and gold gleaming atop their brows, their hands entwined.

“What to do, mylord?”

It all unfolded in his mind. A mountain full of gold. Eleven dwarfs full of greed. The population of Esgaroth starved and broken. Looming over it all, the prospect of a winter so harsh and brutal, Middle-Earth hadn’t seen its like since the Last Alliance. Thranduil knew exactly what to do.

“Prepare our armies. We march by nightfall,” he said to Galion who jumped to attention at these words, not a momentary doubt in his sunken face.

“Yes, mylord.”

“What of Legolas?”

“Feren has ridden out with your decree. There is no word yet,” Galion said, bowing. “If you will excuse me.”

Thranduil grabbed his sword which leant against his nightstand. If there was one comfort in this whole mess of claims and favors it was that Legolas could take care of himself and no need to worry. Thranduil had a bargain to strike and a heart to lay claim to. 

So, it came to be that, on an early pre-winter evening, the sky hung with swollen clouds and tensions high among Eldar and Men alike, Thranduil shared a cup of wine with a Bargeman-turned-King.

After long-winded talks with Mithrandir, a walking thunderstorm all by himself, and using the Hobbit’s offer to strategize against Oakenshield’s madness, they stood by a low-kept fire in Thranduil’s tent, warming their hands and spirits before what was to be a harsh night. Bard stared into the flames which were reflected in his eyes and Thranduil was thrown back ten years. The rush of desire, leaving him breathless, had not lessened it seemed. Not a passing fancy at all. He smiled into his wine and emptied the goblet, putting it aside. Bard shifted on his feet, eyes flicking over to him ever so often.

„I would not deign to touch a creature so far beneath me even if I thought he was pretty,” Thranduil murmured and moved closer to Bard.

„What?“

„That‘s what you suppose I think when I look at you. You suppose I‘m arrogant beyond rational measure and that I only talk to you because practicality warrants it. Is that not right?“ And Thranduil had given him no reason to think otherwise. Until now.

„Yes, mylord,” Bard said and hung his head, hid his face in his goblet, attempting submissiveness, attempting to hide the splotches of pink on his cheeks. Thranduil could see the tug of his muscles though, a grin wanting to break free.

„A king does not bow before another, Bard Dragonslayer. Let that be my first lesson to you.“

“And what will be your second lesson?” Now they were playing. Thranduil smirked and leaned over.

“You will see in due time,” he whispered into Bard’s ear, lips brushing hot skin. Teasing pretty bowmen was not among his usual pre-battle rituals, but oh he could get used to the soft hitches of breath, the warmth, the rawness of someone who had only limited time to spend the stores of their emotional energy. It woke something inside of him, a brutal onslaught of want that cumulated in a harsh pull in his stomach. It took every single layer of his carefully constructed composure not to succumb to visceral instincts he had long since thought buried.

“I am eager to learn,” Bard replied with a husky voice. Splaying a hand against Thranduil’s chest. “But I suppose there are more pressing matters than education and etiquette.”

“Indeed,” Thranduil said and grabbed Bard’s wrist ere he could retract it. Pulled him slowly closer until there was barley an inch between them.

A goblet clattered to the ground as their lips met in an intoxicating preview of tomorrow’s battle. The vigor, the strength, the opposition. Thranduil gasped as he was roughly pushed into his chair, Bard clambering on top of him, never breaking their kiss. No longer a menacing ruler and a lowly bargeman, but equals. In this regard at least, Bard took to kingship with unmatched grace. His calloused fingers traced Thranduil’s cheeks and, oh, this was new, so rough and warm. It mattered not that he could only feel the touch on one side of his face. It mattered not that his well-tended image of cold gravity and brutal inclinations was unravelling under Bard’s hands. Not at the eve of a new era, for the world, for Thranduil. His head spun.

“What will it be?” Bard asked, his head falling back as Thranduil kissed his neck, sucking ever so slowly on tanned skin, hard shoulders once he had managed to pry open Bard’s robes.

“The well of my wisdom runs deep,” Thranduil replied. He could barely hear himself over the pounding of his heart. Could barely comprehend how easily he would be swayed to hand over his kingdom to this man, if only he kissed him again. Eru, but it had been an eternity since he had felt longing for another. So much so that he had forgotten how to tame it. “What do you want to know?”

“How not to shatter, bearing this crown. Metaphorical though it may be.” Thranduil stilled, his hands on Bard’s hips, Bard’s threaded through his hair. There was anxiety in the space between them now, all coming from Bard. What a day it must have been for him, Thranduil thought bitterly and tried for a comforting smile. It worked wonders on the tightness of Bard’s expression.

“You keep your head held high and your heart close to your chest,” he said, his breath stuttering when Bard’s forehead fell against his.

“Sound advice,” Bard said. “Yet here we are.”

“Here we are.”

Bard kissed him again, all the fervor melted away. A soft thing, slightly off-kilter and full of sharp intakes of breath. Thranduil’s arms wrapped around Bard and he pulled him closer. Not two kings, but desperate souls drinking in each other’s warmth at the prospect of a winter that would bring more than snow and cold. This one, Thranduil might find himself able to weather.


End file.
